Rambling Rhodes

What the hell?

From the letters to the editor in today's Star-Tribune:

An early draft of a greeting

Memo to prospective Vikings owner Reggie Fowler:

Hi, it's me, Pat Proft, president of the United States and inventor of the stocking cap. I wish you all the best as owner of the Vikings. You'll enjoy living in Minnesota. You'll never want to leave. I know I missed it so much when I was pope.

Congratulations! By the way, I invented the word "congratulations." You can use it any time you want.

Pat Proft, Wayzata.

Discuss.

Blood & Tears

When I was very young, so young, in fact, I can't even really place a year on how old I was, I slit my wrist open.

It wasn't intentional, mind you. I wasn't a suicidal toddler, or anything like that. It was just one of those freakish series of events that forever burns its way into the formative brain of a youth.

My mother, who was typically a hawk when it came to watching me, had to run an errand, which meant a quick walk uptown and a quick walk back. Total time of absence? Fifteen minutes, tops, which in toddler time is about four and a half hours. But, I was watching TV at the time, so my mother figured she was safe.

No sooner had the door closed behind her, I was busy getting myself into trouble, and I didn't even know it.

As I sat there, watching TV, I became aware that my tiny hand and wrist were the perfect size to slide under the couch. For some reason, this delighted me to no end. I started sliding my hand, palm-side up, under the couch and then bringing it back out.

I was searching, of course, for any lost toys that may have snuck under there but, also, I just thought it was kind of fun.

That is until my encounter with a carpenter's staple.

I encountered the staple towards the corner of the couch, where carpenter's staples abound. Apparently, this particular staple had a loose end, and that loose end was pointing down and slightly inward, not unlike a shark's tooth. So, although my hand slid effortlessly beneath the couch on the way in, when I tried to pull it out. . . boy howdy!

The staple punctured my right wrist at almost exactly the dead center, right smack on top of the main tendon. For my tiny toddler wrist, that staple may just as well have been a steak knife.

Naturally, I panicked. I tried to yank my hand out which, of course, just drove the staple deeper. I tried to wiggle my hand out which, of course, had an effect not unlike a dull saw. So, I did what any child would do when confronted with pain and mild shock: I screamed and cried bloody murder.

When screaming and crying failed to rectify the situation, I mustered every last bit of toddler strength I could to lift the corner of the couch, just enough so I could slip that staple out of my wrist and get it the hell out from under the couch.

It wasn't a major or bad cut in my wrist, but it WAS deep, and the staple had, apparently, punctured something important because, man, there was a serious amount of blood being spurted to and fro. Each beat of the heart sent another miniature crimson geyser up and out of the cut.

I didn't know first aid, but something in my young mind told me that A.) I had to stop the bleeding, and B.) because mom was going to be furious about all the blood on the floors.

I ran to the bathroom and unspooled an entire roll of toilet paper, which I then applied to my gushing wrist. I was then faced with a difficult decision.

My mother had told me that she would be back soon, and that I wasn't to leave the house. That was one side of the coin. The other side of the coin was that I didn't want to die all alone in the house. Okay, I wasn't really afraid of dying, but I was extremely scared by all the blood. I had never seen so much blood come out of my body and, young though I was, there was a part of me that knew I had a finite supply of blood, and I was afraid of running out.

So, I decided to leave the house and see if I could locate my mother. Surely she could kiss this thing and make it all better. The thing with my small hometown is that it's really not that big. You can get to pretty much any point in town with a ten minute walk. Of course, for a toddler, it's about the biggest metropolis imaginable. Still, I knew enough of the town to know which route my mother had most likely taken.

Sure enough, about a block into my journey, I saw my mom coming towards me. I was extremely relieved to see her, but I imagine she was pretty well horrified to see me, what with the wad of blood-soaked toilet paper on my wrist and my incessant, terrified bawling.

At that point, I can't really remember what transpired. Once I transferred all concerns over to the mother auto-pilot, things just kind of went hazy.

Either that, or I passed out due to loss of blood, which I guess is possible.

Randoms

So, I'm sitting here, trying to figure out why I'm getting so many routine visits from the Fabulous Mint 400. Yet, try as I might, I just can't find out where they're linking to me. Until I look up at the damned picture on the upper right. Thanks, guys.

Oh, and via Shot In The Dark, I located this little bit of inexplicable weirdness. Let's all work together, and think really hard about Salma Hayek joining me in my bed tonight, and see if we can't make a little magic happen. I'll report on it tomorrow, I promise.

Sometimes, you have to wonder if animal rights activists have entirely too much time on their hands. To help with the clean-up after 300,000 dead, I'd use humpback whales if I could.

Hey, look! 100 jokes!

If you're a Rochester, Minn. resident, and you hate that the Post-Bulletin Web site is a pay-only venue, you can still visit their new blog. Yeah, "Honk" is kind of a dorky name for it, but what are you gonna do?

Oh, and because I promised her referrals when I could, here's a shout-out to the best realtor in Rochester, Minn., Debbie Quimby. I'm approaching the one year anniversary since I first put a bid on my house, so this seems appropriate.

I Just Read A Joke, And It Made Me Laugh

Saul is working in his store when he hears a booming voice from above: "Saul, sell your business." He ignores it.

It goes on for days. "Saul, sell your business for $3 million." After weeks of this, he relents, sells his store.

The voice says ‘Saul, go to Las Vegas." He asks why. "Saul, take the $3 million to Las Vegas."

He obeys, goes to a casino. Voice says, "Saul , go to the blackjack table and put it down all on one hand." He hesitates but knows he must.

He’s dealt an 18. The dealer has a six showing. "Saul, take a card." What? The dealer has -- "Take a card!" He tells the dealer to hit him. Saul gets an ace. Nineteen. He breathes easy.

"Saul, take another card." What? "TAKE ANOTHER CARD!" He asks for another card. It’s another ace. He has twenty.

"Saul, take another card," the voice commands. I have twenty! Saul shouts. "TAKE ANOTHER CARD!!" booms the voice.

Hit me,Saul says. He gets another ace. Twenty one.

The booming voice goes: "un-fucking-believable!"

Why I Love The Internet

You can watch a conclusion being jumped to in real time, and then go back and consult the conclusion jump at your leisure.

Oh, and yes, I do think the headline: Iran: Blast came during dam job. . . is pretty funny.

Monkey + computer = Nick Coleman Column

Just for the record, I never much liked Red McCombs as the Vikings owner. His continued "hints" about moving the team out of Minnesota, mostly as an attempt to strongarm Minnesota to foot the bill for a new stadium, irritated me more than just a little bit. But, as you know, what irritates me infinitely more is Nick Coleman. So. . . .

Reggie Fowler is the new owner of the Minnesota Vikings -- pending approval by the NFL. But while the football czars wait to see if Fowler's $625 million check clears the bank, we might as well get started on educating Mr. Fowler about his new state, which he admits knowing very little about.

So much disdain packed into such a small paragraph. Those vile "football czars," and how dare Fowler not know much about Minnesota. He needs some edu-ma-cating.

Acknowledging ignorance puts him miles ahead of the outgoing owner of the Vikings, Red McCombs, the San Antonio tire kicker who leaves us after seven years as miserably ignorant of our customs as when he arrived.

Yeah, because it's the duty of every major league sports team owner to learn the customs of the state. If you're going to attack McCombs about anything, it should be his continued insistence of the necessity of a new stadium, despite a team that monumentally disappointed the fans in 1998 and then basically underperformed ever since then. You don't get a new Mustang when you consistently crash your Pinto, backwards, into the same damned tree every week.

He also leaves about half a billion richer than when he came here, which is a pretty good endorsement for the idea of studied stupidity: If staying dumb as a post is worth that much money, old Red deserves some respect.

Dear Mr. Coleman, if studied stupidity means making half a billion dollars, I hereby volunteer to have half my brain removed. Say what you want about McCombs, but the man just waltzed away with a LOT of money. I'd call Red a lot of things, but stupid and/or dumb would not be among the adjectives I'd hand out. Sleazy? Yes. Dumb? No way.

Now get out of town, McCombs. And don't let the Iowa state line hit you in the rear end.

Sometimes I really wonder. . . does Coleman actually think he's funny? Do other people actually think he's funny? If so, why? Discuss.

Is he really gone? Man, that feels good. We owe it all to you, Mr. Fowler. Your house landed on Wicked Old Red and we here in Munchkin Land are very grateful.

I just. . . I just. . . I just can't see how this man continues to write for the biggest newspaper in Minnesota, and I use the term "write" very loosely here. He snatches metaphors out of the air that no other writer on the planet would even consider toying with. Most writers would stop and think: hmmm, should I really equate Minnesota with the fanciful world in the Wizard of Oz? For that matter, should I equate Minnesotans with Munchkins? If you're Nick Coleman, the answer is a resounding "YES!"

In order to show you our appreciation, let us begin by offering 21 survival tips for the road ahead:

Didn't the ever-plodding Coleman promise to get to this way back in the first paragraph? Not that he's known for getting to a point with any haste or anything. I'm just sayin'.

1) Stay away from the State Capitol. That's the big building with the mules on top in St. Paul, which is a hockey town and which is where millionaire football and baseball owners end up mumbling to themselves and looking like they have escaped from a padded room. If, on some occasion, common courtesy requires you to be introduced to a legislator, stay alert: If he puts an arm around you, don't leave without checking for your wallet.

It's kind of like having a big bucket of spit poured on you, isn't it? Still warm and everything. Again with the disdain for the gold-plated horses atop the Capitol building. What does the man have against those horses? And, truly, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a millionaire football and/or baseball owner at the Capitol. It's TRUE! They even have their own designated bathroom. And, be sure to notice how he just basically slandered every Minnesota legislator by calling them pickpocketing thieves. No evidence to back up such a remark, mind you, but since when has that ever stopped Coleman.

2) Speaking of St. Paul, watch for signs while driving that indicate you have crossed into St. Paul. When in St. Paul, do not call it "Minneapolis." We don't need more Packers fans.

What, exactly, does Coleman even MEAN here? Is he trying to be funny again? Do YOU think it's funny? If so, why? Discuss.

3) Find a nanny for Randy Moss. A big, mean nanny who can put him to bed without his supper when he acts up. A better option: Get rid of him.

Moss is a PR pain in the butt. Can't deny that. But when you have guys like quarterback Daunte Culpepper on the team, who recently gave a disabled boy a $75,000 diamond necklace, and then sheepishly went and asked for it back after the staged ceremony was over, I don't tend to think much of the Minnesota Vikings, specifically, and professional athletes, generally. Moss is arguably the most dangerous receiving threat in the NFL, and Coleman wants to get rid of him? And he thinks McCombs is stupid? Gah.

4) Put some clothes on the cheerleaders. The kids are watching.

Damned near naked, they are. Has Coleman ever even BEEN to a beach? Sometimes I wonder if Coleman isn't happy unless he's taking issue with pretty much everything. For my part, let me just say, I love the Vikings cheerleaders. For the last five years, they've been the best part of the team.

5) Keep your nose out of politics. Your predecessor made every Democrat football fan in Minnesota swear a blue streak when Coach Mike Tice presented a Vikings jersey to the Republican president at the height of last fall's election campaign. Bad timing: The team tanked after that, the state wound up in the Democratic column and Moss mooned Green Bay.

Ummmmm, Nick? I don't think the team's tanking had, oh, say, ANYTHING to do with that. Was it ill-advised? Sure. But, as for the state ending up in the Democratic column? Dude, I KNOW you know how to Google. Minnesota is not suddenly NEW to the Democratic column. It's pretty much been in the Democratic column since as long as I can recall, and certainly before Tice presented Bush with a jersey.

Also, I thought it was freakin' hysterical when Moss fake-mooned Green Bay.

6) Dump Tice.

And hire, who, exactly? Typical Nick Coleman jab. "Dump this, and dump that, and. . . I have no idea what to do after that, but the dumping, that's priority one." I imagine that Coleman's solution to a bug splat on a windshield is to buy a new windshield. Or, wait, better yet, a new car.

7) Return Sid Hartman's calls.

I'm not sure what that means.

8) Tell him nothing.

I'm not sure what that means.

9) Get a fishing license. Minnesotans cozy up to new arrivals pretty easily, but you can help yourself along by getting a little fishing boat and taking the kids out on the lake to wet a line. Save the big yacht for the St. Croix, and stay below decks.

Yeah, because Nick Coleman is all about cozying up to new arrivals, following his original "know nothing" barb from paragraph one. Truthfully, Minnesotans would probably give a shit less if Fowler gets a fishing license. Now, if the Vikings actually pop their heads out of their butts and play football next year, then Minnesotans would probably give a shit. But, fishing? Ehhhhhhh. Also notice the obligatory Nick Coleman barb against those who are financially well off, what with their naughty big yachts and all. They should stay below decks, probably in shame for their success, or something.

10) Only catch crappies. Avoid walleye, the state fish. Bud Grant got up to his gills in the never-ending walleye controversies in this state and he has been driven mad. Hint: You can buy good Canadian walleye (or a pretender called zander) at the restaurant. Better yet, eat steak.

I have no idea what that paragraph even means, or why the editors didn't just cut this out entirely.

11) Don't mention the Year of Our Lord 2011 until New Year's Eve 2010. Your team is locked in to play football in the Metrodome until 2011, and we will turn against you faster than we turned on the cantankerous Texas car salesman if you start blowing smoke about what the Vikings can or cannot do before then. You pays your $625 million and you takes your chances.

Apparently, this is what Coleman means when he talks about cozying up to new arrivals. Start accusing early, that's Coleman's motto.

12) If you want to talk about a new stadium, fine and dandy. Just make sure that it's a new University of Minnesota stadium you are pushing for. The Vikings were part of the cabal that forced the Gopher football team into the Dome, and the Vikings will have to support undoing that boneheaded move before you get your ch'i back.

So, Fowler is hereby guilty by association and has lost all claims to his "ch'i" until further notice.

13) Buy some defense.

No argument here. And, yes, I know that this means I actually agree with Coleman about something. I feel like a need a bath and a shave.

14) Stay out of the locker room unless they ask for more towels or cold champagne is being sprayed.

Yeah, can't have those filthy owners mingling with the players. Not unless they win it all, dad-gummit.

15) Tell Daunte Culpepper not to lend his car to anyone.

Huh? Oh. Ha, ha? But, wait a minute, isn't Fowler supposed to avoid mingling with players? I'm so confused here.

16) Learn 12-step lingo. And no more Viking winter "blasts" unless they are held at Hazelden. Better idea: Mandatory winter getaways at Hazelden.

I have no idea what this even means.

17) Avoid spicy foods. Avoid strong language. Avoid all unpleasantness.

It's Minnesota custom to avoid spicy foods? Who knew? I'm in total violation of that custom, it seems. Avoid strong language? Is this fucking for real? Avoid all unpleasantness? Such as, say, reading a Nick Coleman column, perhaps? But, yeah, avoid all unpleasantness, Nick, and. . . oh, wait: Now get out of town, McCombs. And don't let the Iowa state line hit you in the rear end.

18) Take blood pressure medication.

Unless, you know, you don't NEED to.

Now, I warn you, readers, the next bit of Coleman's column is a bit rambling, even for Nick. You can't say I didn't warn you. Drum roll, please. . .

19) Show respect to our Nordic heritage by trying not to gag on lutefisk. Fix the decrepit Viking longboat in front of Winter Park. Not even an Iowegian bullhead fisherman would be caught dead in that cruddy thing. Put up a replica of the Kensington Runestone alongside it. The runestone is a rock that was carved by a Minnesota farmer to make it seem like eight Goths and 22 Norwegians came to Minnesota in A.D. 1362 -- three years before the last time the Vikings were in the Super Bowl. But the Norwegians intermarried with Swedes and the Goths moved to Uptown and we pretty much have forgotten about the whole thing. It was supposed to be funny, but no one laughs at it anymore. You can't, either.

Are you still here? You made it through that? Wow, you're a real trouper.

20) Get a kicker, for gosh sakes.

21) Don't ever mention Red McCombs. Or Denny Green.

Welcome to Vikings Country, Mr. Fowler. We hope we enjoy your stay.

I'm just tired after all that. Worn out. Exhausted. Can't move. Smithers. . . coffee. . .

Plain Layne Revisited

This time, it's someone known as Libertarian Girl. I didn't know about this site until today, but it soooo reminded me of the Plain Layne unmasking.

Without the ass dildos, I mean.

Blogs are weird.

No Touchie

Driving home from work, I heard this song.

Which of course made me think of this woman:

And now I don't want to touch myself.

CNN Misses Story About CNN

'Most Trusted Name In News' Says "Look, Over There. . . A Turkey!"

NEW YORK (Rhodes Media Services): Famed news organization, CNN, over the weekend missed an opportunity to report on a huge story, the resignation of its executive vice-president, Eason Jordan, following intense online criticism of Jordan regarding remarks he made to the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland.

Speaking during a panel discussion called "Will Democracy Survive the Media?," Jordan made unsubstantiated claims that the U.S. military had a standing policy of targeting journalists, both in Iraq and elsewhere. When pressed for proof of his claims, Jordan backpedaled, but would not clarify or apologize for the remarks.

In a statement released by CNN over the weekend, a top CNN official is quoted as saying "We at CNN deeply enjoy coffee in the morning, and we may enjoy the occasional martini for lunch, and a nice seafood alfredo for dinner. As for the resignation of Eason Jordan, we at CNN can only say: look, over there. . . a turkey!"

The statement then read, "*sound of retreating footsteps into the distance, with a Curley 'whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop' noise.*"

UPDATE: The more I follow this story, the more I'm convinced that this rather nothing incident at Davos probably gave CNN the atrocities in Iraq under Saddam so that they could continue to maintain a CNN bureau in Baghdad. Also, Jordan had an affair with the widow of Daniel Pearl, which I'm sure he doesn't want coming back to the surface. So, CNN wins by giving the appearance of taking action, when they're probably a bit relieved to drop an employee who had become a detriment. Jordan wins by keeping his personal dirt on the ground and, hey, the story becomes more focused on the blog lynch mob, so Jordan can quietly slip away.

Coincidence?

You ever notice that VD can stand for Valentine's Day AND venereal disease? Just asking.